


Growing Pains

by electricblueninja



Category: Super Junior, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Family, M/M, Other, Prompt Fic, Two Fathers, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was based on a tumblr prompt....BUT I WENT AND LOST THE FUCKING PROMPT </p><p>>:C</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Ryeowook saw the kid was three days after he moved in to his new apartment.

 

He was out the front of the building, fumbling with his keys, and the boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, was sitting slouched on the stairs, staring apathetically while Ryeowook rummaged through his bag.

 

His round face was mostly tucked away under a baseball cap that was too big—Ryeowook couldn’t actually _see_ his eyes, so he might not have been staring. He just had a feeling that he probably was, because he sat there unmoving, his hand resting on a skateboard propped up beside him, taking up space in that slightly arrogant, surly way that young teenagers do.

 

Given that there was no possibility of actual eye contact, Ryeowook supposed he might as well just ignore him, and continued the hunt for his keys.

 

It was pure coincidence that he found them, and glanced up, at the very same instant as there was a sharp gust of autumn wind. It knocked the kid’s hat off—had this not happened, though, Ryeowook never would have seen that there was a nasty looking black eye hidden under the brim.

 

He stared at the boy, shocked. He was stuck there for a moment, fighting back an impulse to say ‘Are you okay?’ A bruise was a bruise, and it would have been a stupid question.

 

The boy stared back at him, his eyes defiant, before he picked his hat up, plonked it back on his head, dropped his skateboard onto the pavement with a clatter, and took off down the street.

 

It was kind of an alarming introduction to the building, since it wasn’t exactly a high-end neighbourhood. Ryeowook’s mind instantly sprang to the conclusion that someone must have hit the boy, and the thought made his heart ache.

 

But he reasoned with himself that kids got injured all the time, in thousands of different ways. Maybe he’d fallen off his skateboard, for instance. Plenty of ways it could have happened.

 

He gave himself a shake, and moved along. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to be getting on with. He didn’t really have enough time to get distracted thinking about the problems of kids he didn’t even know.

 

 

 

 

 

He had three major problems of his own, at the moment. The first one was the eternal student issue of getting his assignments in on time. The second was getting enough money together to repay the loan he’d taken out to pay the bond and a deposit for his new flat. The third, which was related to the second, was finding a job that was more relevant to his media communications degree than selling over-priced coffee to mall rats and workaholics.

 

Within a fortnight, thanks to pig-headed perseverance, a whole lot of luck, and some help from an acquaintance or two, he had successfully solved the third problem, which helped him feel like he was making progress with the other problems too.

 

Perseverance, luck, and his friends' help combined, he had managed to land a part-time job on the production team at a local city radio station. The pay was average, but he could live with that, because through some unusual stroke of good fortune it was within walking distance of his apartment. This meant that the only restrictions on his ability to work there were his studies and his endurance.

 

Thinking of it as playing the long game, he started taking any extra hours that the station had available, and did his best to make himself indispensable, happy to do everything from set-up to coffee runs.

 

It made for a few very late nights, but Ryeowook thought of it as an investment in his future, and it seemed to be paying off: within a fortnight, the head of staff actually knew his name, which seemed like a pretty good sign.

 

 

 

 

 

After a couple of months had passed, Ryeowook had settled into a routine. He was more or less settled in his new flat, and would go to his morning classes, then catch the train back to his local station and go to work. His home times were somewhat variable—sometimes early evening, sometimes very early morning—but he developed enough of a pattern that it didn’t really matter.

 

In the weeks that had passed, he had managed to do enough exploring to decide on his favourite supermarket, and gotten to know one or two local faces, if not names. There was the uncle who owned the market, the auntie and her daughter from the florist next door to it, the grandmothers who went powerwalking through the neighbourhood, their twentieth century trot songs blaring, and this one particular guy, Jogging Guy, who ran every evening, like clockwork, through the neighbourhood.

 

Not that Ryeowook was paying any particular attention to Jogging Guy, of course.

 

It wasn’t like he noticed how floppy his hair was, or the way he filled out his pants, or anything. He didn’t have time for things like that, either.

 

Closer to home, Ryeowook had also seen the baseball cap kid again.

 

That night, the production team had been short-staffed, and Ryeowook had basically been temporarily promoted to PA.

 

It had been hectic, but worthwhile: he had been able to demonstrate his skills, and even been noticed by the station manager for going above and beyond the call of duty.

 

The ‘Good work, Ryeowook’ he was given at the end of the night meant more than just ‘good work’—it meant the station manager, no less, remembered his name.

 

Exhausted but satisfied, Ryeowook trudged back to his flat at around three in the morning. He’d stopped off at a convenience store that was conveniently situated halfway between work and home, and climbed the stairs to the seventh floor with a warm convenience store dinner and/or breakfast in hand.

 

He was juggling his food, his coat, and his keys, when the neighbouring door opened with a bang. A boy with black hair and a familiar round face emerged and slammed it shut behind him again, moving so quickly he didn’t even make eye contact before pushing past Ryeowook in his headlong dash for the stairs.

 

Ryeowook opened his own door and slipped into the dark of his apartment, wondering if he’d been imagining the boy’s eyes were red and puffy, like he'd been crying.


	2. Chapter 2

One night, Ryeowook got off work at the radio station at about 6pm, and stopped at the market on his way home.

 

The round-faced kid was there, too, and pushed past Ryeowook as he was waiting at the counter, slinking towards the door.

 

Ryeowook paid no mind until, almost immediately afterwards, the doorbell jangled again, and the round-faced kid came back inside, because Jogging Guy was holding him by the collar.

 

‘This kid tried to steal from you,’ said Jogging Guy, without preamble, looking directly at Ryeowook.

 

The boy was glowering, his face dark with embarrassment. _He_ did not look at Ryeowook as he mumbled, ‘I didn’t steal it.’

 

Jogging Guy shook him a little. Not roughly, but firmly enough. (His sleeveless sweatshirt left the distinct impression he could have been more forceful if he’d wanted to.) ‘Give him back his money, kid,’ he added, using his own free hand to pull the kid’s hand out of his hoodie pocket and pushing it towards Ryeowook—holding the 30,000 won that Ryeowook had mindlessly stuffed into his back pocket earlier that day.

 

The kid, grudgingly, looked up and made eye contact with Ryeowook. His gaze was defiant and angry, and Ryeowook had no idea why, but on some instinct, he said: ‘Ah…thank you, but…it’s okay. I gave it to him. He helped me move in the other week. Go on, kid, go get something to eat.’

 

The identical expressions of surprise on Jogging Guy and Thief Child’s faces was almost comical—their eyes widened and their mouths hanging open as they both struggled to process this unexpected outcome.

 

Ryeowook himself was probably more surprised than both of them put together, but he didn’t have the luxury of showing it. He decided to pay for his groceries instead, turning back to the uncle who owned the mart, who was watching the interaction with a look of benign curiosity.

 

Jogging Guy released the kid’s arm, looking embarrassed, and the kid took off, practically bolting out the door.

 

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn he took it from your back pocket. Am I going crazy?’ he added, apparently to himself, scratching his head.

 

Ryeowook looked back to him and tried out a smile. ‘No, no, you’re right—I just told him to take it because my hands were full,’ he lied, a little surprised but also pleased by how quickly he was able to come up with the excuse. Besides, it was partly true: the groceries he’d been juggling, now that they were packed and on the counter, filled four bags.

 

The stranger looked to the bags, then back to Ryeowook, and nodded slowly, reddening. ‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry.’

 

‘Not at all! You were just trying to help.’

 

Expecting the conversation to end there, Ryeowook reached for his groceries.

 

‘Ah…but what kind of idiot goes around poking his nose into other peoples’ business like that? I—I’m from Mokpo actually, and I guess…we’re more…like that. Interfering.’ Jogging Guy had gone entirely pink now, his open features awash with embarrassment as he tried to explain his attempted good deed.

 

Ryeowook felt a little guilty, but also a little gratified, because after watching Jogging Guy jog by for the past couple of weeks, now he had an excuse to _talk_ to him.

 

‘It’s fine, really,’ he said again. ‘It would have looked exactly like that. I appreciate you bringing him in.’ _That_ much was definitely true. If he hadn’t, the kid would have gotten away without Ryeowook ever knowing. ‘So…you’re…from Mokpo?’

 

Jogging Guy looked partially mollified, and stuck out his hand, although it took Ryeowook until he said ‘Lee Donghae’ to understand that he was introducing himself.

 

‘Oh,’ he said, and then, ‘ _Oh_ ,’ and only then, ‘I’m, uh, I’m Kim Ryeowook.’

 

He put forward a hand, forgetting that he was holding his shopping, and only remembering when Donghae took the bags from his hand.

 

The pause that ensued was long and awkward and interrupted by the uncle clearing his throat, loudly, form behind the counter.

 

‘Here…I…uh…let me help you carry your stuff, it’s too much for one,’ said Lee Donghae, and, since he was already holding half of it, Ryeowook had no choice but to nod, and follow the other man as he led the way out the door.

 

‘Which way?’

 

 _How do I stop thinking of him as Jogging Guy?_ Ryeowook wondered, and set off in the direction of home, Donghae striding along beside him.

 

He didn’t manage much by way of conversation. Home was literally only five minutes away.

 

But Donghae did say ‘It was nice to meet you, Kim Ryeowook....Hope to see more of you’, and wink when they parted in front of the apartment building.

 

So that was...something?


	3. Chapter 3

Later that night, there was a knock at Ryeowook’s door. He switched off the hotplates, so as not to burn dinner, and was surprised, when he opened it, to find a small, round face staring back at him.

 

‘Hello,’ he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

 

The boy had gone from staring to scowling, his expression and demeanour awkward. Without a word, he held out a handful of bills—the ones he had stolen.

 

Ryeowook raised his eyebrows, and looked from the money to the boy’s face.

 

‘Take it,’ the kid said, surly.

 

‘You can have it.’

 

‘If you’re thinking I stole because I needed to or some kind of…I didn’t. It was just…dumb. I just did it out of impulse. Take it back.’

 

There was something earnest and vaguely desperate about his expression that made Ryeowook feel bad for him.

 

He seemed to be having difficulty trying to work out what to say.

 

There was a long silence, in which Ryeowook made no move to take the money back, and the boy made no move to retract his hand.

 

Then he said, so softly Ryeowook could barely hear him: ‘You didn’t have to lie for me.’

 

Ryeowook shrugged. ‘Seemed like you must have had a reason.’

 

They lapsed into an unmoving silence, until it was suddenly disrupted by a loud growl from the boy’s stomach.

 

‘Listen,’ said Ryeowook, ‘I just made dinner. Do you want something to eat?’

 

A long moment passed as the boy reverted to staring, before eventually, hesitantly, he nodded, admitting, shyly, ‘It smells really good.’

 

‘What’s your name, kid? I can’t just keep calling you kid.’

 

‘Jimin.’

 

‘Okay, Jimin, I’m Ryeowook. Come inside.’

 

Jimin came in cautiously, like a frightened animal, his fists clenched tightly and one crumpling the bills he still held.

 

‘Sit down,’ Ryeowook instructed (alarmed to hear himself sounding vaguely like his mother), and Jimin sat at the table, staring fixedly at the laminate surface, his expression still churlish.

 

‘So,’ said Ryeowook, turning his back to dish out two large bowls of stew, and taking care to put a little extra meat in the bowl for his unexpected visitor, ‘You live in the building, Jimin?’

 

‘Next door.’

 

‘How old are you?’

 

‘Twelve.’

 

‘So you’re at school, then?’

 

‘I guess.’

 

‘I see.’

 

Ryeowook carried the bowls over to the table, and set one down in front of the boy.

 

He watched, startled by the unspoken enthusiasm with which Jimin tucked into his food, before turning his attention to his own.

 

A few minutes later, Jimin’s eyes flicked up to him across the table, and he seemed to realise that perhaps he should say something.

 

‘Ss good,’ he said, around a mouthful of beef.

 

Ryeowook affected surprise. ‘Really? Well, that’s good then.’

 

Seeming to feel as though he’d paid his dues, Jimin resumed eating voraciously. Ryeowook picked at his food, too, but mostly he was wondering how to ask Jimin why he was out, so late at night. Where were his parents? And didn’t they feed him?

 

‘Jimin…You said you live next door, right?’

 

Jimin nodded, accidentally flicking bright red stew juice onto the table with his spoon.

 

He noticed, immediately, and mopped it with his sleeve.

 

Ryeowook was struck by the gesture. He was a surly kid, to be sure, but well-mannered enough, when he wasn’t dipping into peoples’ back pockets for money in a local supermarket.

 

‘Are your parents out tonight or something?’

 

Jimin made a loud noise of disagreement, but managed to finish chewing and swallow his mouthful before he responded. ‘I don’t have parents,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘I live with my aunt and uncle.’

 

‘I…see,’ said Ryeowook, faltering at this unexpected answer. He’d expected ‘At work’, or maybe ‘At a party’. Not…non-existent. ‘Your parents…are they…’

 

‘Don’t know. My mother left me here two years ago. So I live with my aunt now.’

 

Ryeowook lapsed into silence.

 

‘She doesn’t cook much,’ offered Jimin, scraping the bottom of his bowl with enthusiasm.

 

‘What do you eat, then?’

 

‘I don’t like that house. I just stay outside when I can. Just go back to eat ramen, mostly, then go out again.’

 

Ryeowook clicked his tongue disapprovingly (another habit he’d apparently picked up from his mother). ‘That’s no good. Too much ramen is bad for your health. You’ll be short if you don’t eat properly.’

 

Jimin shrugged, and put the bowl down as he finished drinking the last of the soup out of it.

 

‘Thanks for the meal,’ he said, and got to his feet. ‘It tasted amazing.’

 

He left the 30,000 won on the table, but suddenly, it gave Ryeowook an idea.

 

‘Hey, Jimin—I have a suggestion for you.’

 

‘Yeah?’

 

‘If you want to earn the money you tried to steal from me, I think I have a job for you.’

 

‘What’s that?’

 

‘I work nearby, but I don’t get a lot of time to do groceries and things. If I were to, say, give you a key to the flat and leave a shopping list and some money on the fridge, do you think you could maybe help me out a bit? In return, why don’t you come over here, and eat?’

 

It was a pretty bizarre suggestion, and they both knew it, but after a moment, Jimin nodded.

 

'Yeah,' he said, 'I guess I can help you.'


	4. Chapter 4

Ryeowook told Jimin he would get a new key cut, and leave it under the mat.

 

This he did, and when he checked back after getting home from work, on the same day as he’d left it there, the key was gone, as were the several 10,000 _won_ notes and the shopping list he had left on the table. So he assumed that Jimin had found it.

 

The following day, this was confirmed, because he came home to find the listed items on the table, along with a handful of change, and a note which read _Didn’t know where to put them_ in a messy scrawl. No sign-off.

 

Apart from that, Ryeowook didn’t see or hear from Jimin for a little while.

 

It was maybe ten days later, when he came home in the middle of the night, that, to his knowledge, at least, Jimin next used the key. He was curled up on the couch in the darkened house, fast asleep. Ryeowook didn’t even notice him there until after he’d switched on the lights and turned on the kettle, then turned back and gone into the living room—the back of the couch had concealed his guest from view, and the unexpected presence gave him a start.

 

But Jimin didn’t stir, much less wake, so Ryeowook covered him with a blanket and left him be, only pausing a moment to note the smudgy, puffy look under the sleeping boy’s eyes.

 

He put on some rice porridge for morning, enough for two, and then went to bed.

 

When he got up, Jimin was gone again, but a rinsed bowl sat in the sink, and there was another scrawled note on the table:

 

_Gone to school._

 

This made Ryeowook smile, and he wondered, vaguely, if this was what it was like to be a parent—to worry about the child’s well-being; to think of them when they weren’t there, and to feel somehow warm and satisfied to see that they were sleeping somewhere safe, and had something to eat, and to feel somehow more at ease to know where they had gone in the morning. Well, obviously, he wasn’t Jimin’s father. But maybe that was what it was like: to feel responsible for another living thing. It felt very natural, too, for something that had really been quite sudden. And...and Jimin’s welfare wasn’t really any of Ryeowook’s business, frankly; in fact, Ryeowook was meddling. He knew he was. It wasn’t his place to get involved or start caring for his neighbours’ child. Only, of course, Jimin was not their child, either. And he didn’t seem very cared for, there. And Ryeowook _did_ feel a little worried about his safety, because sometimes there _was_ quite a lot of noise from the neighbouring apartment. Raised voices. And it _sounded_ like conflict, at least to Ryeowook.

 

Anyway. Jimin had used his flat as a refuge, which was what Ryeowook had hoped for. And _Gone to school._ That was good.

 

 

 

 

 

They settled into an irregular routine, after that. Ryeowook continued to leave money and lists on the table, and, though not always immediately, Jimin would bring back the items. Sometimes, Ryeowook would come home to find him asleep on the couch; other times, just the groceries. Occasionally, when Ryeowook was home early enough, and Jimin happened to come by, they would eat together, although Jimin didn’t say much, and Ryeowook tried not to ask questions. He just wanted to make sure Jimin knew there was somewhere he could go, to be safe.

 

 

 

 

 

Another thing that happened was that one evening, on the way home, Ryeowook stopped at his usual supermarket for milk. He’d included it in the list he’d left on the table, but he had no way of knowing whether Jimin would have been over that day or not, and certainly didn’t want to have to leave his flat again after getting home. It had been a long, long day, and he simply did not have the energy. He loved working at the radio station, but he was rolling back his hours at the moment.

 

Actually, it was better than that. He'd received a good opportunity. He needed to cut back on work to focus on university, and he'd explained the situation to his immediate supervisor, who had said that that was a pity, because she liked him, they all did, and to leave it with her. Next thing he knew, he was moving from casual employee to a paid internship. It turned out that the station higher-ups were pleased with his performance, and looking for someone to fill the spot of presenter on a community chat segment. So Ryeowook would now be able to work a lot less, which would mean less money, but it was a step towards achieving his dream of becoming a broadcaster.

 

But none of this was the thing that happened.

 

What happened was, Jogging Guy— _No,_ Ryeowook reminded himself, _Donghae; his name is Donghae—_ was there again when Ryeowook went into his local mart. And not just there, but _there,_ at the drinks fridge, getting out a bottle of water right when Ryeowook turned into the aisle. And Ryeowook definitely did not recognise him instantly, because his subconscious mind had definitely not, at various times, watching him jog by, committed the particular proportions of those exposed, muscular arms to memory, nor had it made a study of the breadth and fullness of those hamstrings, thighs, or buttocks, stretching out the thin cloth of the sweatpants; nope, definitely not. Definitely didn't remember it all even after not seeing it for a while, either. Nope.

 

Jogging Gu— _Donghae,_ that is—was turning towards Ryeowook as Ryeowook turned down the aisle. And Ryeowook was moderately sure that they would pass each other, maybe brush shoulders, and Donghae would buy his bottled water, and leave, and that would be that, because Ryeowook didn’t have Jimin to rob his back pocket and bring good samaritans to the rescue this time. After all, it had not been such a memorable event. No sense mistaking a friendly interference for anything more, or anything else. And yet, their eyes met, and suddenly Ryeowook’s neck felt hot, because Donghae’s exquisite lips curled up and parted over perfect teeth, and he smiled at him as one might at a long-lost relative, and immediately reached up to tug his earbuds out of his ears, forearms rippling.

 

‘Oho! Long time no see, Kim Ryeowook-ssi!’

 

‘Oh,’ said Ryeowook, suddenly feeling so warm he could have comfortably climbed straight into the refrigerator, ‘Lee Donghae-ssi—’

 

Donghae, he realised, was unselfconsciously taking his hand, and pulling him into a relaxed embrace, the kind that sporty, masculine types seemed to take for granted as a friendly greeting.

 

 _A friendly greeting_. Brief, and uncomplicated, and then Donghae was stepping back, and saying something. Saying, ‘Hey, look, I was really, really hoping I’d run into you. Because I didn’t get your messenger, and I didn’t know how to get in touch with you…’

 

‘Get in touch…?’ Ryeowook echoed, stupidly, ‘With me…?’

 

‘Yeah,’ Donghae continued, apparently completely at ease, ‘because I wanted to ask you a favour, actually.’

 

‘A favour…?’

 

‘Yeah! I mean, I know you’re probably super busy and all, but hear me out. I mean, maybe I’m misremembering, but you do media studies, right?’

 

_You...remembered that?_

 

‘I’m…Yes. I do.’

 

‘That’s what I thought!’

 

Donghae’s smile was almost infectious; Ryeowook could feel his own lips trying to mirror it instinctively. _He remembered me. He remembered what I study._ He stamped down on his irrational excitement, along with that rising heat. 

 

‘So...’ he prompted, gently.

 

‘Oh,’ said Donghae, as though he’d quite forgotten he was supposed to be driving the conversation, ‘So, I wanted to ask if you could tutor me. Please.’

 

He saw Ryeowook tilt his head with mild confusion, and quickly went on to explain: ‘We have to do a few media studies courses. For sports science. Well, for the management and business part of the degree. And I thought, _you_ do media studies, _and_ you live near me. So...do you think you could do it? I’d pay you, of course.’

 

Ryeowook realised, with embarrassment, that his mouth was slightly open.

 

He made the effort to close it, clearing his throat awkwardly.

 

Donghae misunderstood this as signs of a refusal, and scratched behind his ear, also becoming awkward. ‘It’s...it’s okay if you can’t, obviously. I just thought maybe. You know. It could be. Convenient. Or something.’ The smile was slightly subdued this time. ‘Um...sorry. Bit sudden, huh? It's just been on my mind.’

 

‘No, no,’ Ryeowook said, hurriedly. ‘Um. I…I might be able to. To tutor you. I mean, I’d like to. And I’ve just rolled back my hours at work, so, uh, it’s...it’s pretty good timing actually. I, uh...yeah,’ he finished, weakly, ‘Yeah. I’ll just have to confirm my timetable, and make sure that I can actually, you know, commit to it.’

 

Donghae, listening attentively to this garbled response, brightened considerably. ‘Great!’ he said, as though it was the best news in the world, ‘That’s great. But I mean, just think about it. Take all the time you need. Not too long, obviously, but, like, yeah...just let me know. If you can. Can...can I have your katok ID?’

 

Feeling slightly disoriented, Ryeowook shared it with him, and felt his own phone go off in his pocket as Donghae sent the request through.

 

But at that moment, Donghae seemed to notice the time on his watch, and swore lightly under his breath. ‘Okay, hey, look, sorry, I gotta go. But, uh, thanks, Ryeowook-ssi! I’ll wait to hear from you.’

 

Ryeowook nodded, numbly, and Donghae smiled again and moved past him to go buy his bottle of water.

 

Their shoulders brushed.

 

Their eyes met as he passed by outside in the street, in the dusk, and Donghae held his hand up to his face in the universal sign for ‘call me’ before he broke into a run and dashed out of sight.

 

Ryeowook smiled and nodded, and watched him go, and tried to remember why, again, he had come to the store.


	5. Chapter 5

Jimin came and went at all hours, more or less as he pleased—Ryeowook became more aware of this as he started working fewer hours at the station.

 

The kid did wake him up a couple of times, by accident, when he came in in the middle of the night. He was highly apologetic, afterwards. When it happened most recently, at breakfast, he had asked if he was causing problems or inconvenience by coming over. Ryeowook had replied that he was not, and that he could continue to come round whenever he needed to. He was a light sleeper, but also went back to sleep easily.

 

Jimin, eternally awkward, just said ‘Okay. Thank you’, and that was the end of it.

 

He was coming over at least two nights a week, though, and Ryeowook did wonder if he should try and talk to his neighbours, Jimin’s aunt and uncle, and let them know what was going on, and that Jimin was safe.

 

He had no idea how he would have gone about the explanation, particularly not the part where this whole situation had arisen because he was concerned about Jimin’s welfare.

 

He certainly wouldn’t have been able to raise Jimin’s black eye. And though there had not been any more bruises on his face, he always wore long sleeves, and Ryeowook was uncomfortably certain that sometimes the cloth concealed more than skin. Especially now he was home more, and could hear the fights through the wall.

 

They were frequent, and loud. Mostly verbal, though, it seemed.

 

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should at least try to talk to the aunt, and did go and knock on three separate occasions, while Jimin was...elsewhere.

 

No one ever answered.

 

 

 

 

Donghae also started coming round, for tutoring sessions at Ryeowook’s kitchen table.

 

Jimin came home from school a quarter-way through their very first session.

 

His eyes had been very large and round as they settled on the back of Donghae’s head, and then narrowed with faint hostility, but he didn’t say anything, and moved off into the living area, where he sat quietly, earbuds in, doing his own homework.

 

Jimin had somehow been home for most of every session since, too, but he did not really—no, he _didn’t_ speak to Donghae. Ryeowook asked him about it, once, after Donghae left—he told Jimin that of course he was very welcome to be there, and that there was no need for him to supervise the tutoring sessions from his distant post in the living room—he could come to the table, or…

 

Jimin had just shrugged, and interrupted by asking him if he knew how to do long division.

 

Donghae, for his part, didn’t try to speak to Jimin, either.

 

 

 

 

 

‘I don’t like that guy,’ said Jimin, suddenly, over dinner one evening.

 

Ryeowook looked up, startled by the vehemence.

 

Jimin did not return his gaze—instead, he became busy chasing pasta around his plate with his fork.

 

‘What?’ said Ryeowook, and then, ‘Who?’

 

Jimin impaled a piece of rigatoni. ‘The stupid one.’

 

_Stupid…?_

 

Ryewook suppressed a laugh. ‘You mean Donghae?’

 

Jimin’s expression grew darker at the name. He glowered balefully at a piece of broccoli before he ate it.

 

Ryeowook considered his young charge for a moment. Given the circumstances under which Jimin and Donghae had first met, he could completely understand why Jimin might dislike him. Nothing was more fragile than the pride of a young adolescent male. And Ryeowook didn’t know for sure, since it was outside of his personal experience, but he suspected that few things were more embarrassing for teenaged ego than getting collared for petty crime, and, worse still, being forced, with an audience, to face the person against whom you’d committed the offence.

 

But Jimin was not a kid without a moral code— _that_ was where the embarrassment came from. Jimin was not one of those kids who was only ashamed of getting _caught_. He’d been ashamed of taking Ryeowook’s money in the first place. Or at least, he’d done it for petty reasons. To appease his feelings of resentment towards a world that he believed would only wrong him. Or so it seemed to Ryeowook, anyway. Especially after the way that Jimin had responded when Ryeowook had defended him. He would never forget the look of disbelief that had crossed Jimin’s face—almost like no one had ever protected him before.

 

From that perspective, from the perspective of an angry, scared child, Donghae had humiliated Jimin. So this comment was no great surprise.

 

Still, it made him curious.

 

He continued to eat, careful not to show any further signs that the remark had surprised him. ‘What do you mean, Jimin?’ he asked, nonchalantly, around a mouthful of carbohydrates. ‘Why don’t you like him?’

 

‘I just don’t.’

 

Jimin shrugged.

 

His scowl deepened, but Ryeowook sensed that it was safe to push a little further.

 

‘Jimin,’ he said, ‘You can tell me.’

 

‘He’s _hiding_ something,’ Jimin muttered, and now, Ryeowook was only _more_ intrigued.

 

‘Hiding something…?’

 

‘I don’t know,’ Jimin interrupted, setting down his fork, ‘He’s just weird. I mean, if he’s here to study, shouldn’t he be taking notes and things?’ Jimin pursed his lips and folded his arms, still refusing to make eye contact. ‘He doesn’t take notes.’

 

Nothing else was forthcoming, so Ryeowook let the topic drop, and extended ice cream as an olive branch instead.

 

But it played on his mind.

 

The next session he had with Donghae, he paid more attention to what Donghae actually did, and it turned out that Jimin was right.

 

Donghae asked plenty of questions about the material he was supposed to be covering, and listened carefully to everything Ryeowook said. But not only did he fail to take any notes: he did not even bring a pen.

 

Or, well, he might have had one in his bag, somewhere—and he _did_ bring a bag, and books—but he didn’t even bother getting it out.

 

Had it been the same in the other sessions?

 

Ryeowook didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He’d always been focused on explaining the material, and on what Donghae had been asking, not what his hands had been doing. In fact, he’d sort of tried not to pay too much attention to anything below Donghae’s face at all. Donghae’s face was distracting enough as it was.

 

‘Is the kid okay?’ asked Donghae, at the end of the session, as he was packing up to leave.

 

‘Oh—Jimin?’

 

‘Kinda rare, for him not to be here.’

 

_T_ _rue,_ Ryeowook realised. Suddenly, upon reflection, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever had a session just one-on-one with Donghae before.

 

Good thing he hadn’t noticed earlier; noticing at the _end_ of the lesson was enough to make his palms sweat.

 

‘Yeah,’ he admitted, forcing himself to smile wryly, ‘He kinda comes and goes whenever he wants to.’

 

Donghae looked somehow surprised at this.

 

‘You know,’ he said, ‘that first time, in the store, I really thought he was just a pickpocket, ’cause of how he was behaving. But then, when I looked properly, he looks so much like you, and I realised you _must_ be related.’

 

An awkward silence fell between them.

 

Then: ‘He’s…he’s not _your_ kid, is he?’

 

Ryeowook was glad he was sitting down, or he might have fallen over. He gaped.

 

‘Do…do I look… _old_ …?’

 

‘ _No,_ ’ Donghae blurted, quickly, loudly, ‘No, I didn’t mean _that_ —I just thought…He’s always here, and he looks like you, so maybe…I don’t know, you know? There’s all kinds of people in the world.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude. I just thought…Well, you seemed too _young_ , if anything, but…’ Another lick. ‘…I mean, if you _did_ have a kid, you just, you seem like the kind of guy who probably _would_ take responsibility for it, and all, so…’

 

Ryeowook had mentally waded through an ocean of shock and astonishment to be swept up by tides of amusement, which he tried to smother by placing his hands over his mouth.

 

‘No,’ he said, ‘He’s not my son.’ _I would have had to be what…fourteen?_

 

‘Oh. Nephew?’

 

‘Um…no,’ Ryeowook admitted, ‘No relation. His aunt and uncle live next door.’

 

Yeah, it sounded weird, putting it that way.

 

Donghae frowned, and it made him look like a concerned labrador.

 

Ryeowook was not sure how much he should say, but, for some reason, he trusted Donghae enough to tell him the truth. Part of it, anyway.

 

‘He says his mother left him there, and he has no parents now. I’m not sure his aunt takes great care of him.’

 

A slow nod as Donghae considered this explanation. Then, ‘You’re a very kind person, Ryeowook.’

 

They finished up, then, but Donghae messaged Ryeowook that night.

 

_What year are you, anyway?_

_1987\. Why?_

_You should call me hyung, then ;-)_

_Ah...really?_

_And let’s speak informally_

_Ok_

“ _Ok hyung”_

_Ok hyung_

_< DH is writing a message>_

_Can we have the next tutoring at my house? Today was ok, but I can’t concentrate when your kid is there_

_I can just ask him not to come for that hour_

_No, don’t have to do that_

_< DH is writing a message>_

_It’s just_

_< DH is writing a message>_

_He glares at me_

 

 

Ryeowook typed out “I can tell him not to glare at you ㅋㅋㅋ”, but, after thinking about it for a few seconds, deleted it. “ _< DH is writing a message>_” hovered on-screen, too.

 

_He doesn’t like me. Just come to my house_

_Ok_


	6. Chapter 6

‘Usually, my roommate is here,’ Donghae said, ‘But he’s gone home for his mother’s birthday. So I thought it might make sense to have the session here instead.’

 

Ryeowook nodded and mmhmmed an agreeable indifference, more interested in casting his eye around the small studio, and seeing how Donghae lived.

 

Donghae and his roommate rented one of those rooftop flats. It was big, for a studio apartment, and the living space was open-plan. The bathroom was in one corner, walled off for privacy (which was a luxury, in these older buildings, which sometimes just had curtains, or glass, or, if you were really unlucky or the building was really old, no internal bathroom at all), and a little galley kitchen tucked into the smaller part of the rest of the L-shape.

 

Half of the larger leg of the L was home to twin single beds and railings that made up an exposed wardrobe, where clothing was stacked or hanging chaotically over even more chaotic tubs of shoes. The other half was home to a large built-in desk, with overhead shelving, and it was here that Ryeowook assumed they would hold the session.

 

‘Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? Food? Drink?’

 

Ryeowook suggested a glass of anything cold, and Donghae dutifully disappeared into the kitchen corner.

 

Ryeowook went over to the desk, and took the seat furthest into the room, by the wall.

 

As he unpacked his books, Donghae re-emerged with two glasses, a bottle of juice, and some snacks, all loaded haphazardly onto a tray, which he set down on the desk. The way he did it was very endearing, somehow, and Ryeowook took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, willing an intrusive upsurge of something somewhere between lust and affection to go away.

 

It had been a while since he’d gotten laid. The abstinence must have been making him go strange.

 

The rest of the tutoring session was uneventful, but, since Jimin had pointed it out, Ryeowook was uncomfortably conscious that Donghae did not take notes this time, either.

 

This session was worse, actually, than the one before. This time, Donghae made a pretense of note-taking, which was to say that although he did not take notes, he held a pen. Held it, and kept putting the end of it in and around his mouth, in a way that made Ryeowook want to cover his eyes or throw cold water over himself.

 

Though ashamed of himself, he was now pretty sure of the mental images he would next bring to mind when he got into the shower at home. With one minor substitution.

 

Rallying as best he could, he made it through the hour without any inappropriate physical responses to Donghae’s oral activity, but it was still a relief when the lesson ended.

 

As he was packing up, Donghae said, ‘Hey, uh, Ryeowook?’

 

He looked up to find Donghae watching him, but with something awkward about his expression and bearing.

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘I guess I can’t avoid your kid, huh,’ said Donghae, which was not at all what Ryeowook had been expecting.

 

‘He’s not _my_ kid, though.’

 

‘Well, he is, kinda.’

 

Ryeowook wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.

 

‘Anyway, whatever. He’s pretty important to you.’

 

‘I...guess he is.' Again, he realised it was truer than he'd thought.

 

‘So I guess maybe it will be hard for us to be friends if he doesn’t like me.’

 

‘Well, actually, what he said...’

 

Ryeowook reflected on what Jimin had said. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was probably okay to be honest with Donghae. ‘I’m not sure that he _dislikes_ you. What he said is that he doesn’t trust you.’ Ryeowook laughed, the melodious sound spilling from his lips to hide his sudden spike of anxiety. ‘He said he doesn’t _trust_ you. He doesn’t want _me_ to trust you, because he thinks you’re hiding something from me.’

 

He laughed again, partly from nerves and partly from the ridiculousness of it all, expecting Donghae to frown, then smile, then join in his amusement.

 

Donghae did not.

 

Instead, he went a bit pale, and put his juice down with a resounding clunk.

 

The only sound he made was to say, uncomfortably, ‘Oh.’

 

Ryeowook shifted in his seat. The situation was turning in a strange and unfamiliar direction, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. ‘You’re not, are you? Hiding something from me?’

 

Donghae was regaining colour, turning steadily from white to pink as he played with the condensation on the rim of his glass.

 

‘Um. Well. The thing is. There  _is_ something I haven't, uh, told you.

 

'I did…see you. Before that time, with the kid, in the shop. I saw you before, and I…this is going to sound, um, weird, but I thought you were really attractive.’ He stared at his glass forlornly for a moment before dropping his gaze to the floor and muttering, ‘I still do. Think you’re really attractive.’

 

Ryeowook felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, like he’d suddenly been launched into freefall on an amusement park ride.

 

He clutched the edge of his seat, but it didn’t help. Reality was slipping away from him, and he was falling into some alternate dimension in which a man whom he desired was confessing _to him_.

 

‘This can’t be happening,’ he said quietly, directed at the universe more than anything.

 

Donghae, now nearly the colour of a particularly vibrant chilli paste, began to kick the wall under the desk with his toes.

 

‘Wow,’ he said, ‘If you didn’t think I was crazy before, you sure will now.’

 

‘Donghae…’

 

‘That's what happens when you keep secrets, though, isn't it?’ Donghae continued, an edge of hysteria to his voice, ‘People find out. But...But _your kid_ goes and works it out?’

 

‘Donghae…’

 

‘Of all people, some kid sees right through me.’ _Now_ he laughed: a short bark of it. ‘I didn’t think I was going to tell you. I _wasn’t_ going to tell you. But…’

 

‘Donghae…Me too.’

 

‘Well, shit, I mean, he’s spot-on, so I—'

 

‘ _Donghae_.'

 

Donghae seemed finally to register that Ryeowook was looking at him, though he wouldn't return the eye contact.

 

'What?’

 

Ryeowook took a deep breath, and said it in a full sentence. ‘I thought you were good-looking, too.’

 

It felt surprisingly good to say it out loud. It had a grounding effect, too. Or at least, it brought Ryeowook’s soul, which had been trying to exit through the ceiling, back into his body, because Donghae finally looked him in the eye.

 

‘You do?’

 

‘I do.’

 

There was kind of a long silence, and then Donghae closed the gap between their rickety desk chairs, and kissed him.


	7. Chapter 7

 

The office chairs were on wheels, and by closing the gap between them Donghae had pushed against Ryeowook, his chair rolling backwards to collide with the wall.

 

He might have hesitated, but in the end this inertia forced their lips together.

 

There was a brief moment in which Ryeowook’s rational mind protested this sudden turn of events, but it flickered and vanished in the same instant as its inception. He couldn’t have formed a conscious thought. His senses were monopolised by the sensation of Donghae’s lips melding with his. Despite the circumstances of the kiss—the inertia, the impulsivity, and the unplanned and clumsy execution—there was something impossibly smooth and natural about it. Ryeowook did not believe in destiny, and he did not believe in perfection or precision in human affairs, particularly not in the sticky business of sexuality. So how was it that somehow, at this moment, every atom in the bodies of two men could align so perfectly, and bring their lips together like this?

 

There was a sound of incoherent wantonness. It was a sound that said ‘Fuck me’ without words.

 

Ryeowook realised, with alarm, that it had come from him, and scrambled backwards, pulling his mouth away from Donghae’s. He couldn't understand the sudden sense of loss, or incompleteness, when their lips parted.

 

‘I’m going crazy,’ he muttered, darkly.

 

Donghae’s eyes searched his out. There was apology in them, and panic, and something wilder prowling in the background that perhaps his fear had bridled.

 

‘I’m sorry. Was that…Too much?’

 

Through Donghae’s palms, which had crept up to cup his face during the kiss, Ryeowook felt a tremor, precipitating movement. Ryeowook realised that he had interpreted the thoughtless remark as rejection, and was about to pull away. He reached up hastily to cover Donghae’s hands with his own (and somehow surprised when they felt exactly the same size as his, because Donghae was taller. He had never noticed his hands were small).

 

‘No. Not too much.’

 

He lifted his own hands to mirror Donghae’s, resting them along the sharp line of the other man’s jaw, the tips of his thumbs brushing over warm, smooth cheeks.

 

Looking into Donghae’s eyes made him feel inexplicably safe.

 

‘Not enough,’ he said, softly, and then leaned forward to return the kiss.

 

There was an unbidden sound—or maybe sound _ **s**_. Maybe both of them were making those strange, desperate noises. Ryeowook wasn’t sure. It stopped mattering, really, because the latent wild and urgent thing in both of them took over, like some kind of cartoonish dark force, picking them up and sending them stumbling towards one of the single beds, where Ryeowook ended up beneath the soothing weight and pressure of Donghae’s bulk. Donghae’s hands stayed where they were, holding Ryeowook’s face, though no longer so gently. Ryeowook’s hands, by contrast, travelled down the broad expanse of Donghae’s back, his fingertips alternately digging into the meat of powerful muscles and tugging at the obstruction of the cotton singlet.

 

Ryeowook slid his fingertips under the waistband of Donghae’s tight jeans, and did not regret it. The muscle beneath his fingers was everything he’d imagined it would be. He felt the throbbing ache of himself getting hard under his restrictive clothing, and groaned his frustration. Donghae understood; he answered in kind, and when Ryeowook pulled more insistently at the hem of his shirt, he relinquished his hold on Ryeowook’s face to sit back and tug it off, revealing the broad expanse of his muscular chest and torso, pleasantly softened with the signs of a good appetite: a living picture of virility.

 

Ryeowook swallowed. The sight of Donghae sitting over him, proud and half-naked and hard-nippled, made him salivate, which was both strange and kind of embarrassing.

 

It was Donghae who, after a couple of moments, broke the silence, his smile shy. ‘Do you…What do you like, Ryeowook-ah? What kind of…y’know…What do you want to do?’

 

Ryeowook felt himself flush, and resisted a random compulsion to say “ _anything”_ out of concern that he would sound like a slut.

 

He thought about Donghae’s mouth on the end of that pen, and then wished that he hadn’t.

 

‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘I don’t really…you know.’ Which was true. He didn’t, really. It might even have been years since he had ‘really’-ed.

 

Another smile. Why did Donghae look so gentle, at the same time as having that feral glint in his eye? ‘Well, we’re here now,’ he said. He flashed a grin that turned Ryeowook’s insides to jelly. ‘Just tell me no, if there’s anything you don’t like.’

 

Careful fingers unbuttoned his shirt and pushed the material aside; trailed lazily over his skin, lingering above his waistband, then unbuttoned his jeans and slid beneath it. Beneath his jeans but over his underwear. And Donghae’s lips, brushing over his throat, trailing kisses down his torso, on the soft parts of his stomach—

 

He whined, but the word that came out of his mouth was ‘Please’ instead of ‘No’; ‘Please’, and ‘Yes’, and ‘Your mouth—’

 

And Donghae, without missing a beat, tugged roughly to get Ryeowook’s jeans and his underwear off his hips, slid those hot, firm hands back up over his stomach, holding him down, and began to use his mouth.

 

Ryeowook closed his eyes as Donghae’s lips slipped, loose and pliant, over the head of his dick. His hands, moving of their own accord, rushed down to rest on Donghae’s shoulders, sliding to his triceps and back again. His moan was soft and encouraging, and he felt Donghae smile with satisfaction around him, and it made him weak.

 

‘God,’ he breathed, overwhelmed by the heat and the warmth and the wetness that slowly engulfed him, and Donghae hummed something. Whatever it was, it sounded appreciative, and it intensified when Ryeowook, responding to the vibrations of the voice as sound became physical sensation, tightened his fingers. The tips and the bones of his fingers bit deep into Donghae’s arms, which Donghae seemed to find motivational, because Ryeowook felt his cheeks hollow and his tongue tighten and the tight grip of his lips slide slowly up and down the shaft of his dick; a steady rhythm tugging hard on the threads of his self-control.

 

He began, with one hand, to stroke Donghae’s hair. He tried to focus on the feeling of each strand running under or between his fingers, but it was hard when he began to shake with the effort of _not letting go._ He wanted to let go, but not yet—not like this. He wanted…more.

 

He opened his eyes. The afternoon light was beginning to fade outside, but it was still more than enough to illuminate Donghae’s broad shoulders, shine on his muscular arms, gleam in his dark hair, and glint off the sweat on his forehead. His concentration as he sucked Ryeowook’s cock was deep and intense; a faint frown between his eyebrows as he focused on the task at hand (and he had indeed brought one of his hands down from Ryeowook’s abdomen, gently supporting his efforts).

 

‘Donghae—Donghae—wait.’

 

Ryeowook tangled the fingers of both hands in Donghae’s hair, and stilled him with what he hoped was a gentle tug.

 

Donghae’s lips slipped from Ryeowook’s cock only with greatest reluctance. Lewd strings of spit still joined them together as he cast his gaze upwards, as though representing where his attention was lingering; he spared only a moment before looking back to Ryeowook’s erection, and licked his lips. (The sight of this made Ryeowook twitch, which prompted a small, smug smile.) ‘Mmm?’

 

‘Don’t…don’t finish me. I want to try…to have you.’

 

 _That_ got his attention—strong eyebrows arching upwards into his hairline with surprise. ‘Really? Is that okay?’

 

‘ _Yes_ it’s okay. I’m asking for it, aren’t I?’

 

‘Alright, alright. Sir, yes sir,’ Donghae retorted mildly. ‘There’s lube. In the drawer.’ This, Ryeowook retrieved, fumbling for it without actually changing position, while Donghae rose to his knees and undid his belt buckle, then suddenly bit his lip. ‘But…I don’t have condoms. I mean, I know I don’t _have_ anything, but—’

 

Lube in one hand, Ryeowook shook his head. ‘As long as you don’t.’

 

‘I don’t.’

 

‘Then take off your goddamn pants. _Please_.’

 

Ryeowook knew better than to rush, but he was impatient, and aroused, and it showed in the eagerness of his body. Two fingers were no trouble, so, compensating slightly for the haste with extra lubrication, he tossed the bottle aside, and lifted his legs for Donghae’s benefit. He watched smugly as the part of Donghae that wanted to go slow battled with that other part of himself, the primal thing.

 

Ryeowook _wanted_ the lust to win. He wanted to see what gentle Donghae, with his soft face, would look and feel like when he was hardened by it (figuratively, that is. Literally, he was hard already). What would do it, though?

 

Making eye contact, he bit his lower lip experimentally, and could see Donghae's eyes flash. A good weapon, then. He lowered his eyelids, too, and arched his back, and slipped his hands down in between their bodies. One for Donghae, one for himself.

 

Lust won. Donghae growled, and, with commanding hands, hooked Ryeowook’s calves over his shoulders and dragged him close.

 

Once Donghae had pushed into him, Ryeowook’s own lust broke its harness, too, and it showed in his increasingly loud, panting cries.

 

Of all the ways to end a tutoring session, this had been furthest from Ryeowook's imagination, but Donghae made a far more compelling lover than he did a student. In fact, in this particular scenario, though this kind of "lesson" was new to both of them, it seemed somehow that Donghae was the teacher, and Ryeowook became the student. No...no, Donghae was more like the researcher, and Ryeowook was the subject of the experiment.

 

But the way that Donghae went from hesitant, careful thrusts, to fast, forceful strokes, holding Ryeowook down against the mattress with both hands on his chest, was physical education as an art, rather than a science. The way that Donghae held him down was still the strangest blend of brute force tempered by tenderness. It made something stir, deep in the darkest corners of Ryeowook's psyche: some part of him that wanted to know that he was corporeal; to force him out of his mind and into the present moment, which the hand measuring his heartbeat rendered inescapable. The pressure of Donghae's hands on his ribcage also brushed against...the tip of a deeply-embedded shard of loneliness. Somehow, that pressure was the most earnest expression of _want_ , and Ryeowook wanted it, too. He did not have an icy exterior—he had an icy _interior_. But under the subdued violence of Donghae's hands, it was beginning to splinter; drip; melt away.

 

Eventually, Ryeowook lost the strength even to hang his legs over Donghae’s shoulders, and let them fall, folding loosely and uselessly at Donghae’s sides, his toes curling and his cries becoming silent gasps as Donghae moved his hands up to Ryeowook’s shoulders, and his thrusts became shorter and harder again, but deeper; somewhere soft and intimate and ultimately very, very messy, because, with a moan, Ryeowook came all the way up Donghae’s torso, leaving a white, sticky splatter pattern across his left pectoral muscle and down his side.

 

The result was a faraway look in Donghae’s eyes, hooded and lust-darkened now, shining from a face that glistened with sweat. The veins in his neck and forearms strained against his skin. He moved his hands to grip Ryeowook’s thighs, rougher now, his slick palms struggling for purchase on Ryeowook’s skin.

 

As Ryeowook shuddered and bucked up in the wake of his orgasm, he could see Donghae slipping under the current of his own pleasure, too; could feel the throbbing of Donghae’s cock buried deep inside him as the other man made a desperate effort to rally, and look into his eyes, and whisper ‘Ryeowook…I…’ before incoherent bliss took his words, and Ryeowook felt wet heat flooding into what seemed to be, for a moment, the very core of his being.

 

 

 

 

 

A little while later, Ryeowook _tried_ to leave. But when he sat up and looked for his shirt, Donghae turned tragic eyes on him.

 

'What?'

 

'Do you _have_ to leave?'

 

 _Is this grown man actually_ pouting _at me?_

 

There was food in the fridge for Jimin, anyway, Ryeowook had decided, and conceded defeat.

 

‘Fine. I'll stay.'

 

The unadulterated joy on Donghae’s face made him feel like he must have saved the world or cured cancer.

 

'Can I at least shower, though?' he muttered, feeling the way the sheet had dampened beneath him.

 

'Why?' asked Donghae, smiling broadly in a self-satisfied way.

 

Ryeowook shot him a sour look. 'Don't push it.'

 

'Sorry, sorry.'

 

'You are not.'

 

Donghae leaned forward and pressed his lips to Ryeowook's parted ones. It was chaste—practically innocent, compared to what they'd just done—and yet Ryeowook felt his insides heat up, transforming into a kaleidoscope of butterflies when Donghae gently touched his cheek with his fingertips.

 

'No, really. Sorry. I'm just being dumb. Go shower. Do you like pizza?'


	8. Chapter 8

Ryeowook did like pizza.

 

He also liked Donghae. Uncomfortably much. This little soft warm feeling unfurled in his belly when he came out of the bathroom, and it made him think that maybe it wasn't a good idea to extend their time together.

 

It happened because he stepped through the door to find Donghae sitting, waiting, smiling, pushing a pizza box towards him with almost childish pride, as though to say _Look what I got you_. The look in his eyes, somehow innocent, seeking Ryeowook’s approval, stoked certain embers in Ryeowook’s heart, and the flames caught too quickly—so quickly that it had him internally reaching for a fire blanket.

 

Ryeowook’s friends often scolded him for his lack of boundaries and caution. And from the way the heat was spreading, from heart to belly to brain, even _he_ could tell that he was in very real danger.

 

It was much too much for him to be feeling, much too soon.

 

Yes, with hindsight, maybe Donghae was right: maybe this _was_ too much, after all.

 

Not the kiss. A kiss was alright. But…but having sex might have been a bit too much.

 

 _You can’t possibly_ love _him,_ said a voice inside his head, sounding remarkably like Kyuhyun, or maybe Heechul. _You barely know the guy._

 

 _That’s not entirely true,_ he protested, silently, his eyes still locked with Donghae’s. _Look at him. He’s a nice guy. It’s obvious. Just_ look _at him._

Because there were several clues leading to the emotional state beneath Donghae’s smile. His lips curled warmly, and the corners of his eyes crinkled, but there was a small furrow between his eyebrows and a line by his mouth revealing the slightest amount of tension, which eased off slowly the moment that Ryeowook smiled back.

No, there was no doubt in his mind that Donghae was kind, and he was honest, or at least ingenuous. Jimin had been quick to pick up on his erstwhile ‘secret’, so he was clearly inexpert at hiding things—and he’d collared Jimin stealing, so he obviously had a strong moral code. And…and he was just so _nice._ And extroverted, but shy nonetheless. Not a big talker. Not good with his words. And maybe not so quick-witted, but definitely no idiot.

 

 _He’s a good guy. He’s definitely a good guy_ , he asserted, almost desperately, and the disapproving imaginary versions of his protective friends, lodged in his psyche, seemed to shrug and turn away, muttering that they’d be back later.

 

Still, Ryeowook had to admit that knowing him for a few weeks was a pretty weak defense for jumping into bed with him the moment the opportunity presented itself. Especially because he had already been in lust with him. Donghae might not know that, but _he_ did. So even if Donghae _was_ as unbelievably decent and genuine as he seemed, it was still bad form from Ryeowook, to go flinging himself at him like he had.

 

Yes, a needle of shame had most definitely pierced Ryeowook’s bubble of post-coital satisfaction. He could feel his heartrate accelerating again; this time, with a slow flush of shame.

 

His palms suddenly seemed damp, and he made to wipe them on his pants, but the cloth under his skin was not the denim he expected—it was soft cotton; a pair of Donghae’s sweatpants, because the jeans that Ryeowook had arrived in were still hanging off the end of the bed, mostly on the floor. They were going to need a wash, pronto, because they’d been too hasty, and not closed the lid of the lube bottle properly, and so one of the legs was now decidedly slicker and stickier than it had ever been designed to be.

 

Ryeowook shrugged deeper into the fleecy warmth of Donghae’s jumper, trying to hide from his embarrassment, but the end result was only that he was enveloped by a soft wave of the other man’s scent, and, instead, his embarrassment intensified.

 

Donghae finished inhaling one slice of pizza, and paused to survey Ryeowook curiously.

 

‘Not hungry?’

 

‘No, no. I am. I was just…thinking.’

 

He took the seat across from the other man, reached for a slice, and took a bite, but he ate more out of obligation than hunger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ryeowook continued to think, on his way home. He didn’t want to, but his mind insisted on thinking. About Donghae, at first, since he was walking home in a cloud of his scent; then, halfway home, as he crossed the park, he looked up to glimpse his apartment tower in the distance, and he suddenly found himself thinking about Jimin, instead—wondering if he would be there when he got home; how his day had been; whether he’d eaten; whether he was keeping up with his schoolwork.

 

Donghae and Jimin. Two unexpected relationships, of very different natures. And yet, he realised, the man and the boy actually reminded him of one another. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more resonant the similarities became: both of them trying hard to seem big and tough and strong, yet all it seemed to take was the smallest kindness, the most fleeting connection, for them to each reveal themselves to him as gentle, vulnerable people, seeking comfort, and someone to love them.

 

The thought made Ryeowook smile.

 

It was a pity that Jimin so disliked Donghae. Under other circumstances, he might be quite a good influence on him. They might be good influences on _each other_.

 

Ah, but Jimin…

 

He wondered, more concretely, if Jimin would be home when he got in. He hoped so. Lately, he was always hoping so, because…because he cared about the kid. Another kind of caring. Another kind of caring too much, perhaps?

 

The thing was, though--and it had stuck in Ryeowook's mind, ever since Donghae had mistaken their relationship for that of father and son--Jimin stayed with him more often than he didn’t. And his family didn’t seem to _care_ , and that didn’t sit well with Ryeowook. So after Donghae’s mistake, he’d started to wonder if maybe he _couldn’t_ be Jimin’s…well, not his father, obviously. But his guardian, maybe. And it had started as an idle thought, almost as a joke, but the fact of the matter was that whatever Jimin's relationship with his blood relatives, he trusted _him_ , and felt safe with _him_ , and Ryeowook wanted him to have that, all the time.

 

Ryeowook stopped in the middle of the path, and reached for his phone. Rather than allowing his internal Kyuhyun to pipe up again, he might as well call the real one. After all, Kyuhyun studied law at SNU, and may even be able to offer practical advice on guardianship.

 

Guardianship?

 

The thought had been almost entirely abstract when it emerged from his subconscious, but when he investigated the ‘abstract thought’ a little further, he found that it was quite real, and politely asking for his serious consideration.

 

He moved off to a bench, bathed in the sulphur glow of a streetlamp, and dialled his friend’s number.

 

Kyuhyun picked up on the third ring. ‘Hi, hyung.’

 

‘I wasn’t sure I’d catch you. Is now a bad time, Kyuhyun-ah? Can we talk?’

 

‘Sure. Just finishing an essay, but God knows I need a break…How are you, hyung?’

 

‘Oh, I’m okay. You know me.’

 

‘Uh-huh.’ There was a moment’s silence, as though Kyuhyun was holding back laughter. ‘What have you done, hyung? What stray have you gone and adopted?’

 

‘Yah, Choi Kyuhyun! Hyung loves you, you know that—’

 

The laughter escaped, this time, and Kyuhyun interrupted, his tone one of good-humoured fatigue. ‘I know, I know, you have a lot of love to give, hyung. That’s usually the problem. Oh, stop it—I can hear you pouting—stop. What did you do? How can I help?’

 

Ryeowook chewed his lip.

 

‘Just now,’ he said, ‘you mentioned adoption.’

 

‘I did.’

 

‘How does…uh…how does legal guardianship work, here?’

 

He could almost _hear_ Kyuhyun’s brow furrowing.

 

‘Well, it’s pretty simple…it’s…but…but… _Why_?’

 

‘It’s kind of a long story,’ Ryeowook muttered, his hand creeping up to rub the back of his neck, and then shifting forward to fuss idly with the toggle at his throat.

 

‘Then I guess you'd better start talking.’


End file.
